An unpleasant lesson for a deadbeat

Published 4:00 am, Monday, May 10, 1999

1999-05-10 04:00:00 PDT SAN FRANCISCO -- VAN NESS AND BAY. The fares have been few tonight, but the tips good. The last three out-paid the meter. Now, I see a well-dressed couple flagging me from in front of the building where Frank Sinatra used to stay when he was in town. They're going to Tommy Toy's. I ask if they've eaten there before. "We just got into town and we're staying with friends," the man says, "but I hear it's good." As we pull up, there are four or five official-looking sedans with flashing red lights out in front.

I tell my passengers it's probably Gray Davis. The motorcade pulls out, I pull in and ask a guy there what's going on. "That was the president of Singapore," he says. "Stopped in for a bite." Guess he's keeping a low profile. Probably doesn't want to be asked about that American they caned over there a few years back for painting graffiti. *

EDDY AND TURK. I pick up this guy who stiffed me for a fare two weeks before. "I think I'm going to the Gold Club tonight to see some interesting ladies," he tells me. Last time it was 1015 Folsom, and he got out telling me he'd be right back. Which, of course, never happened. I tell him sure, you bet, let's go. I'm thinking: OK, now I'm going to fix this guy.

I fly across Market and down Third. "Are we lost?" he asks me. "Is this the right way?" This is the shortcut to hell, I tell him, and we just passed Go. He just looks at me and says, "I just want to go to the Gold Club." I make a left near 24th, pull into a gravel road and stop. I open the back door for him and tell him, we're here. This is your Gold Club. He looks at me bewildered. Please get out, I tell him. He does. I get in and drive off without lights. The whole place is pitch dark. I yell out the window as I'm leaving: We got lost, so the fare's on me. And I laugh, loud.

The next guy that stiffs me, I think I'll take to the Power Exchange and lock him in one of those cells. *

This city has a big paratransit system - discount travel vouchers supposedly for the poor and disabled. Daytime, it's probably a lifesaver for some. At night, it's just about abuse. People try to sell me paratransits by the bagful. I've had fares drunk on their cans fill them out in the bar. Most of the paratransit coupons I get are from fares coming out of bars or sex clubs. In two years I can't recall an honest use of a paratransit in my cab. Blast me about it, but those are the facts. *

CHESTNUT AND FILLMORE. Two young men stroll over and get in about 2 a.m. Heading to Hillsborough. That's $40 for starters, I tell them. One hands me the money and the other starts talking. "I got to go home and get some sleep," he says. "I'm going to my divorce hearing, and what a waste that's going to be." As we head onto the freeway, the other one says, "Yeah, divorce. I'm divorced, my parents divorced twice, my sister is going through her second divorce and I have a girlfriend who wants to get married."

I ask him if he can deal with that. "I like her," he says,

"but you know, everyone in her family is divorced, too. Her mother tried to have her stepfather thrown in jail once." We head up into the hills off the Millbrae exit. We pull into the driveway of a mansion. Nice place for someone who's been through the mill a couple of times, I think to myself. Real nice place. *

CALIFORNIA STREET. I'm thinking about getting a cup of coffee when a slim young woman puts up her hand. She's going to 27th and Dolores. We start talking about films, because the San Francisco Film Festival is starting and I've been looking at the catalog. I tell her I read that two major stars are feuding and that their friendship is over. "I work with (one of them) and that's not true," she says. She tells me the name of the production company, which is a hell of a strange name. I say I'm going to the festival's awards ceremony. "So am I, with my husband," she says. "We've been married a couple of years and I'm six months pregnant." I tell her she doesn't look it.

"Everyone says that," she tells me.

I ask what her husband does. "He's a cab driver, like you." I drop her off and wish her the best. I didn't tell her that one of the actors in this feud has a mother who lives in an exclusive old folks home near where I live. Willie Brown has an apartment near there, too. *

Driving around these streets all night, I notice that it's starting to look like the back roads of some Third World province. There seem to be potholes everywhere downtown. San Francisco must have some of the most incompetent road crews this side of L.A. There's a pothole next to the Stockton Tunnel the size of a big bomb crater. It's been filled at least twice, and this week I fell into it again. Holes like that will explode your axle. Or try driving on those huge metal plates when it's raining. They're everywhere, day and night. *

HAIGHT STREET. It's 4 a.m. and I'm thinking: one more fare and that's it. Then I see a young couple, each about 20. They're both wearing what looks like Gothic black. She's got a very short skirt and he looks like some version of Marlon Brando at that age. She moves into the back, he gets up front with me. "The Cannery, please," he says. "I'm sitting in front so we can turn the music up." Do your thing, I tell him. "I was a fine songwriter at one time," he says. "Wrote a couple of hits." I ask which ones. He sticks out his arm and pulls back his leather jacket. There's a curve in his forearm. "It broke and I let it heal without going to the hospital," he says. I tell him that sounds crazy to me.

"including one that went to the top of the charts." I tell him fame can be short and deadly. "I know," he says.

"That was five or six years ago." As we pull up to the Cannery, he sees two of his friends sleeping in a doorway.

"We're home," he says. He pulls out his money and his driver's license to show me his I.D. His first name is Casanova. I take one last look at them and I'm gone.

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